knuckles. That means sprints.
Lots of them.
My muscles tense in anticipation as I collapse face-first onto my bed, not even bothering to yank on boxers or crawl under my covers. Much as I wish I could close my eyes and escape my life for a while, I’m too worked up to sleep. I scroll my phone instead, pulling up a bookmarked playlist of videos.
Not porn. Not the latest episode of whatever dumb sitcom the networks are circulating this spring. Not the viral prank videos my teammates are always forwarding.
The greats.
Crisp white uniforms with blocky red lettering, iconic fixtures against the bright green grass. The same clips I’ve watched over and over, a million times, since I was old enough to access YouTube by myself; since I realized there was a way to foster my Red Sox obsession even without being able to afford season tickets.
I study the players — their technique, their focus, their presence on the field. I watch the plays unfold, smooth as a choreographed dance, each throw made with instinctual precision. The Green Monster looms large, a fixed backdrop against the Boston skyline, dwarfed only by the talent on the diamond below it.
Pedro Martínez.
Nomar Garciaparra.
David Ortiz.
Manny Ramirez.
When I finally drift off, images of my idols still playing across my iPhone screen, I dream of the day I’ll be standing on that pitcher’s mound at Fenway Park, throwing a perfect game. And I dream of the blonde girl with blue eyes, sitting front-row behind home plate, the name on her fan jersey a match for the one on our marriage certificate, cheering me on.
Chapter Seven
JOSEPHINE
The sun is an asshole.
I blink awake to a shaft of light beaming directly into my bleary eyes. Given the pounding in my temples, either an elephant sat on my head while I was sleeping, or I’m experiencing my first-ever hangover.
“Ugh,” I grunt, forcing my body upright. Almost immediately, I realize being vertical is a terrible mistake. I fall back against my pillows as my stomach lurches queasily. I’m not sure if I need to throw up everthing in my body or shovel down the biggest breakfast known to modern man. Make that lunch, seeing as it’s already past noon.
What happened last night?
Beer pong — that’s what. I have only myself to blame for being in this state. I wince as memories flood back to me in fragments.
Lifting a red cup to my lips.
Stumbling in a monochrome kitchen.
Sienna Sullivan’s pouty pink lips.
Ryan Snyder’s face, alarmingly close to my own.
Archer’s fist, slamming into that same face.
My eyes snap wide open.
Archer.
I’d nearly forgotten our fight — not to mention the reason I decided to get so wasted in the first place. It’s not typical of me to reach for alcohol to numb my pain. Then again, nothing that happened last night was typical. Certainly not overhearing my best friend being deflowered by the head cheerleader.
Mortification swiftly overtakes me as I realize what Archer must be thinking. I reacted to his hookup like a jealous girlfriend, not a platonic friend. I’m actually quite grateful I can’t recall the full details of our fight on the drive home. The memory of me slamming his truck door with enough dramatic flair to land me a spot at Julliard will haunt me until the end of my days.
Granted, I’m still angry at him for being such an asshole… but my anger has temporarily been subdued beneath the weight of utter embarrassment. I’m not sure I’ll ever be brave enough to show my face in front of him again — or Ryan, for that matter.
Poor guy tries to kiss me and gets his lights punched out instead.
When I’m certain I’m not going to throw up, I drag my carcass from my bedroom to the kitchen. I have to break twice on the stairs, grabbing the thick mahogany bannister like an invalid, leaning over to catch my breath. My fuzzy bunny slippers mock me, a remnant of simpler times, before boy-crushes and beer-fueled outbursts.
I’m never drinking again.
In the kitchen, I’m greeted by the sound of cheerful humming drifting through the open windows. Flora, Archer’s mom, is outside wiping down the glass with a bottle of vinegar, as she does at least twice a week. The constant spray off the ocean coats Cormorant House in a thin layer of salt; by the day after tomorrow, every one of its many windows will be in need of cleaning again. It’s a task that would drive Sisyphus himself mad.
But Flora has the patience of a saint.